


Most useless person alive

by gwendolynflight



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 3x05, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, pre-queliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-19 04:53:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolynflight/pseuds/gwendolynflight
Summary: During their quest to complete the mosaic, Quentin’s depression sometimes gets the better of him. Eliot is there to help.





	1. Chapter 1

Quentin kept up with Eliot for months. It was hard to even keep track of the passing of time, in a way. They had their charts, of course, and a record of the passing of time could be constructed – every pattern they had tried, every day they had wasted.

He tried not to see it as waste. 

Eliot kept them optimistic, and the part of Quentin that mostly remembered the partier, the drinker, the slut, was surprised by that. Time passed differently in Fillory, though, and while Quentin had been dealing with crisis after crisis back on Earth, Eliot had been … growing up. He was mature, and steady, and Quentin leaned on him, hard, for months. And for months it worked – the days passed, each mired in the most minute differences of color and pattern, but overall identical in practice – building the mosaic. They took turns designing and constructing, sometimes working together, sometimes retreating to the edge of the board to call directions.

They averaged a pattern a day – but the possible permutations were more than they could get through in a lifetime, at this rate. And there was no speeding things up.

The months were starting to wear on him. Fillory had a stable climate, not being subject to rotations or seasons, and so the nights weren’t cooling, the leaves weren’t turning. There were no indications of change, and it was starting to drive him a little nuts. He moved a little slower, worked with less enthusiasm, expressed his doubts in what he knew to be a passive-aggressive manner, though he couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing petty shit.

And then one day, he simply didn’t get out of bed.

There was only one bed in the small cabin next to the mosaic, and they’d been sharing, platonically. Quentin had gotten over ruining his relationship with Alice by sleeping with Eliot and Margo, mostly, but he also didn’t have the courage to try anything while he was sober and didn’t have the excuse of fucked up emotion magic to cover any possible rejection or humiliation. (Part of him trusted Eliot, and knew even a rejection would be gentle, and caring, but most of him lacked even the capacity for that kind of trust). So Quentin was used to Eliot’s habit of rising with the sun. 

He’d really taken to his agrarian roots – not without bitterness, at first, or near-constant drinking, but he’d really taken to having a quest, and a purpose, and while he still drank it was without the quiet desperation of his time at Brakebills. So, as every morning, on this morning Eliot was up with the sun, moving about their little cottage quietly, thoughtfully, as if he wanted to let Quentin sleep in a little longer, cooking breakfast as he always did. 

Even when feeling up to it, Quentin was hopeless in the kitchen, and had been forbidden to prepare more than tea. (It wasn’t tea, exactly, but a native Fillorian drink that was enough like tea that they didn’t bother with its proper name).

Quentin was already awake, for once, but unmoving. He lay on his side, cheek pressed into his pillow just hard enough that it was uncomfortable – but it wasn’t worth the effort to move. He felt … drained. The kind of tired he wasn’t sure he could come back from, the kind that had nothing to do with sleep, or lack of it. Light streamed in through the small windows, and he stared at it through unfocused eyes.

“Q,” Eliot called softly after a while, “breakfast is ready.” When there was no response, or sign of movement, he continued. “Porridge. Again. Yum.”

Quentin was actually fairly enthusiastic about the porridge, so Eliot’s sarcasm was clearly meant to get a rise out of the other boy – but nothing.

“Q?” Eliot approached the bed.

Quentin didn’t answer him, couldn’t quite find the energy to even look at him.

Eliot’s hand, warm from his time at the stove, pressed against Quentin’s forehead. “What’s going on? Are you sick?”

Quentin managed a small _hmph_ , squirmed a little beneath Eliot’s hand – and that effort drained him, utterly. He went so still that Eliot drew back a little with alarm, then grabbed Quentin’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Q?”

Quentin made another unhappy sound, and, in a burst of effort, wrestled the blanket up over his head.

Eliot was silent for a moment. “Okay,” he said, slowly. “I’ll let you sleep a bit longer.” He patted Quentin’s shoulder, or the lump beneath the blanket that was probably Quentin’s shoulder, and stood. “I’ll check on you later.”

And then he went out to work on the mosaic.

Quentin did not sleep. He stayed under the blanket until it was too warm to bear, thinking that Eliot was putting him to shame, keeping at the quest, never faltering. Quentin was so useless, just lying here – but what would be the point of getting up? He was useless either way.

A few hours passed like this. Eliot bustled in and out a few times, checking on Quentin as he’d promised to. He prodded until given a sign of life, and then left Quentin to it. Quentin both resented and felt grateful for these intrusions. At one point Eliot offered him some lunch, but he didn’t respond, and Eliot let him marinate for a while longer.

As it got darker, Eliot shuffled back into the cottage, slowly moving about the small space and lighting the lamps and candles that provided their only illumination. There were spells that could provide light, but Eliot had said something about the romance of candlelight and Quentin had gone along with it, unless he felt the need to reread one of his Fillory novels after dark. 

Eliot’s movements told Quentin that he’d worked hard all day, that he was tired, and stiff. Quentin knew he should get up, do something to help – maybe offer to help with dinner, or give Eliot a back rub. The taller man’s back sometimes hurt after a day bent over the mosaic. But he did none of those things. He didn’t move, or speak, or respond when Eliot offered him a small bowl of stew for dinner.

Eliot sat on the edge of the bed, and put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. It was his wooden shoulder, so he only felt a sort of pressure – but part of him, the part that wasn’t communicating right now, appreciated the gesture.

“What’s going on with you, Q?” Eliot asked, almost as if speaking to himself. “I’m starting to get worried.”

With what felt like a great deal of effort, Quentin slipped one hand out from under the blanket at patted Eliot’s knee.

Eliot caught Quentin’s hand in his, and squeezed it gently. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Later that night, he made Quentin drink a glass of water, supporting his neck with one strong hand, his face creased with worry. Then he climbed into bed and wrapped himself around Quentin, as if he could keep the other boy safe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was just complaining to a friend that I had no more inspiration for this idea, when more came to me. So, um, this also stands on its own as a continuation of the first part. I'll try complaining to the friend again?

Eliot left him again the next morning to continue work on the mosaic. Quentin didn’t have it in himself to help, or eat, or get out of bed, or even explain this feeling to Eliot – who seemed to accept it, as he did so much about Quentin, and to continue the quest around him. He got Quentin to drink another glass of water, and went out the door of their little cottage with purpose.

Quentin watched him go, wanted to go with him, couldn’t. The sun rose as it did every day, shone dimly through their small windows, and he watched the shafts of light move slowly across the small single room of the cottage, a visible representation of time moving on without him.

The need to piss became quite pressing. He dragged himself out of bed, not even straightening fully before a wave of black swamped his vision and knocked him back down, his blood pressure bottoming out. He took a breath and tried again, using the wall to steady himself as he stumbled to their small water closet.

Part of him wondered about Fillorian plumbing post-magic, and that lit the tiniest spark of curiosity in him – he could ask Eliot about it, assuming Castle Whitespire had used a similar set-up with similar spells – but just getting back to bed drained him further, and he pulled the blanket back over himself, almost shaking with the effort, any thought of theoretical discussion or philosophical debate as distant as his other feelings.

Eliot must be so disappointed in him, he thought – not miserably, but very matter-of-factly, as most of his emotions hadn’t sunk so much as flattened, as if just as exhausted as the rest of him. His depression always seemed this way, when it got really bad. As it crept up on the edges, he could recognize thoughts as dark, behaviors as maladaptive. But sometimes it hit him all at once, like this, and even the worst thoughts sounded normal, even rational. So it seemed totally reasonable now to assume that Eliot was upset with Quentin for not helping, that Eliot was getting sick of Quentin’s shit, that Eliot was wishing that someone else, anyone else, had stepped through the clock with him. 

Quentin imagined for a moment Eliot and Margo stuck here – they’d be totally happy together, or at least happy to complain to each other. Or Eliot and Alice – Alice Quinn could have solved this puzzle in a flash, Quentin was sure of it. Or even Eliot and Julia – they still didn’t get along, but Julia was so much smarter than Quentin, Eliot would realize pretty quickly how much better she would be for him, for the quest. 

Instead he was stuck here with Quentin, who had killed a god and gotten magic turned off and who wasn’t even working to fix it.

These thoughts went on for some time, and Quentin was starting to spiral. It was mid-afternoon, or thereabouts, and Quentin was just starting to realize that Eliot hadn’t come in for lunch, and was just finding a way to blame himself for that, too, assuming that Eliot was avoiding him and would rather go hungry than even look at him – when Eliot bustled in through the cottage door, looking like a man on a mission. 

He went straight to Quentin, bent over him, and picked him up. Just like that, an arm under Quentin’s legs and one around his shoulders, a bridal carry, and straightened up – Quentin clutching at his shoulders as the room seemed to spin around him – and carried him outside.

Quentin wanted to protest, thought for a second he’d been right and this was Eliot kicking him out, wondered where he’d go and if the whimsical creatures in the woods would eat him, but Eliot moved very fast, and by the time Quentin figured out on what grounds he should protest, they were outside, and standing in front of a … bed. A second bed, another bed aside from the one inside, to clarify, a low platform draped with blankets and quilts and decorated with what seemed like dozens of cushions and pillows. It overlooked the mosaic board, which hadn’t been rearranged for the day. “What…”

“I know you’re … tired, sort of,” Eliot said, his tone short and preemptory in the way it got when he was doing something thoughtful and didn’t want anyone to comment on it. “At least out here you can get some fresh air.”

Quentin’s emotions, though flat, and small, swelled over at the gesture, and he hugged Eliot awkwardly. “Thanks,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot’s scent was so familiar and comforting, a little intensified by his day of work out in the sun, and Quentin breathed it in for a moment.

Eliot let him, but after a bit kissed his forehead and set him down on the bed. “Just get some rest,” he said, stroking Quentin’s hair, which was beginning to get a little greasy. “I’ll put some food together.” He pulled one of the quilts up to Quentin’s shoulders, and headed back inside.

Quentin watched him go, still moving with purpose, and felt a little guilt, for making Eliot worry – but also a lot of gratitude, that Eliot cared.

He really hadn’t thought being outside would make that much of a difference, but being on the bed Eliot had made him was … pleasant. The sun was warm on his face, and there was just a hint of a breeze that ruffled his hair and rustled through the leaves in the surrounding trees. It was soothing, like distant ocean waves. 

He stirred, pulled an arm out from under the blanket. He could hear Eliot bustling around inside the cottage, the clattering of pots and pans. It was a comforting sound. A homey sound.

Eventually Eliot emerged, carrying a tray laden with a plate, a bowl, a glass, a cup, gently steaming, and a small pot. “Okay,” he said briskly, setting the heavy tray on the bed next to Quentin. “We have soup, finger sandwiches, cucumber, my favorite, juice, and a pot of tea.” He sat next to Quentin, and helped him sit up. 

Quentin leaned into Eliot’s side, and Eliot picked up a sandwich. It was small, the crusts cut off, and Quentin could see the thinly sliced vegetables, the vibrant green and red of cucumber, leafy greens and sweet peppers – and Eliot had said it was his favorite, but it was Quentin who preferred the little sandwiches with peppers. He really didn’t feel like eating, yet, seeing the effort Eliot had put in, he took a nibble.

The flavors burst on his tongue, and hunger awakened with a tired grumble. Eliot fed him three of the little sandwiches, most of the soup, the glass of juice and part of a cup of tea before he couldn’t eat anymore. 

He was leaning back against the strong line of Eliot’s torso, finally full, and sleepy. Not uselessly tired or drained, but actually sleepy. He turned a little, getting comfortable, rubbing his cheek against Eliot’s chest. Eliot carded a hand through Quentin’s hair, pressing Quentin to him. He kissed Quentin’s forehead, and something in Quentin relaxed, a tightness he hadn’t even recognized through the drained feeling giving way, loosening, and he fell asleep like that, intertwined with Eliot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin on the road to recovery.

Eliot nursed him through the bout of depression as if he had a bad cold, relying on soup and honeyed fruits and lots of sleep. Quentin didn’t think it should work – the last time he’d been this bad, he’d checked himself into the hospital and had been started on a new medication. The time before that, he’d tried to kill himself. He’d thought himself well familiar with these symptoms, what they led to and what he needed in order to treat them: high-grade, prescription-strength pharmaceuticals. 

Maybe it was the small percentage of opium in Fillory’s air, Quentin thought idly. Or maybe not. Either way, a few days of watching Eliot work on the mosaic without him, and Quentin started to make suggestions, just tentatively at first, his voice a small thing, weak – but progressively stronger, as he ate a little more of the nourishing food Eliot was making for them, and soaked in a little more rich Fillorian sunshine. 

After a few days he was sitting up, if cross-legged and hunched over his knees, so that he could see the mosaic properly. That he was taking an interest at all made Eliot smile at him in that gentle way he had.

Eliot carried him between beds throughout this time, and Quentin clung to him, and felt empty and low, so low – but he didn’t think about killing himself. And he clung to Eliot in other ways, leaning on him in ways he’d ever trusted another person with – not even Julia, who had come close, once. The fact that she’d used knowledge gained from previous episodes to trap Quentin in the prison of his own making most likely to destroy him hadn’t helped Quentin’s reluctance to open up. But Eliot got past all that somehow.

So Quentin made an effort for him, at first requesting the move outside (and his heart broke a little to see how happy it made Eliot that he was showing interest in anything at all), then requesting specific foods (grilled cheesed, and it healed Quentin’s heart a little as Eliot made figuring out the best Fillorian cheeses for melting into a small adventure), then walking between the beds, leaning on Eliot at first then making it, albeit slowly, on his own. 

His interest in the mosaic increased at a similar pace, Eliot following his suggestions with an unusual patience, just wanting to get him involved in something, anything. As Quentin perked up a little more, Eliot handed over paper and the box of pastels and encouraged him to plan out the next few designed while Eliot worked on the mosaic itself.

Quentin felt just a small pang that he was the reason for the slower pace. But the paper was smooth and thick, pleasant in the hand, and there was something immensely satisfying about plotting out new patterns while Eliot worked nearby.

A few nights later, still clinging to Eliot while they slept, as if the other boy might disappear if he let go, Quentin felt able to tell Eliot what was going on with him.

“My brain, uh,” he said into the darkness, tightening his grip on Eliot. “My brain sort of breaks, sometimes. It, uh, sometimes all I can see is the worst, um, of everything.”

“I know,” Eliot said soothingly, petting his hair.

“I just, I feel like we’re not going to solve this, ever, and we’ll never find the key, or fix magic, I—”

Eliot held him while he shook, shushing him gently. “I worry about the same things,” he confessed.

“But you seem so ... together,” Quentin said, whining a little.

“Ah,” Eliot said, that edge of humor like a shield in his voice. “ _Seem_ is the operative word in that sentence.”

“So it’s an act? How dedicated you are? And how well you’re handling my shit?”

Eliot shushed him again, pressing a kiss to his hair. “That’s not what I meant.” He sighed, and shifted on the bed a little, freezing as Quentin’s hold tightened. “I think we’re just … taking turns. I can be strong, for you, while you need me. Just like you’re strong for me, when I need you.”

Quentin snorted. “You don’t need me. No one needs me.”

“Hey,” Eliot said sharply, “listen to me for a second. You listening?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, feeling himself to be under scrutiny.

“You’re a good friend, Q.” When Quentin squirmed, having a hard time hearing this, Eliot squeezed him. Quentin stilled, and Eliot continued, “you’re the only reason I’m still here. I would’ve given up months ago.”

“So it’s my fault you’re stuck here,” Quentin said miserably.

“You’re not hearing me. You’re my reason for … at this point, for living. Your faith, your love for this place. It’s inspiring. It makes me want to finish this.”

Eliot was rarely so sincere, and it stunned Quentin slightly. “Wow,” he said, his voice soft. “I don’t know what, uh, what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just, believe me? Please?” He laughed wetly, and Quentin realized he’d been crying. 

“I believe you,” Quentin said in a small voice. He felt humbled, and curled a little tighter into Eliot’s warmth. 

Their talk didn’t fix everything, but Quentin tried harder, and every day it got easier, until one day he made a suggestion, and Eliot tossed him the tile, said, “Do it yourself, Coldwater,” in a teasing voice – and Quentin did.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Rupert is born, Quentin experiences another rough patch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at writing short, contained things and I'm just going to accept that about myself. So, fine, this is an ongoing series. I don't think it will be entirely in chronological order, though. What does that make this, freeform?

Once Rupert was born, Quentin tried his best to hold it together. 

In a way, it was easy – Rupert was an absolute delight, even as an infant. 

He and Eliot helped with the birth, both panicking like idiots, Arielle calm as anything, her pretty face gleaming with sweat and a look that Quentin could only think of as a beatitude. Again, he thought, it might have to do with the opium in the air, but even with their panic the birth seems almost easy. Quick, at least, and the baby emerged tiny and wrinkled and wet and Quentin held him and understood what love was for the first time. His whole heart filled with it to overflowing, and Eliot looked at the tiny infant like he’d been smacked over the head – stunned, by everything the child did.

As Arielle helped the baby latch onto her breast, Quentin said, “I want to call him Rupert.”

“A strong name,” she said, looking drained but at peace.

“You’re such a nerd,” Eliot said, but he was smiling, smitten. Quentin felt the same, almost unable to look away from the tiny miracle. 

And Rupert was a joy. Again, maybe the opium, but he hardly ever cried, and he was smart, looking around all the time and noticing everything they did and said. And they loved him. Quentin suddenly felt like he had everything he had ever wanted. 

Their work on the mosaic continued, but now they worked around the needs of this child, this remarkable child, and Quentin finally felt part of something. A family.

And Eliot was one of the most important parts of this little family.

He’d been so scared, when Quentin broke the news that Arielle had gotten pregnant, even more anxious as her belly swelled. He’d told Quentin about his father, his fears, how his daughter with Fen had been an accident borne of golem-sex, and then a sudden teenager. The girl Quentin had met nearly three years ago, back on Earth, had been strange and distant, and he could understand Eliot’s doubts.

Quentin did his best to reassure Eliot, to be the rock Eliot had said he could be, back in their first year together. Quentin brought Arielle everything she craved, rubbed her feet as they became swollen and sore, helped manage her peach and plum trees so that the fruit wouldn’t be left to rot or be eaten by birds, and he worked on the mosaic with Eliot, and did his best to convince Eliot that this was a good thing, not something to fear.

“What if I hurt it?” Eliot asked, his voice almost a whisper, into the protected space between their bodies, so quietly that Arielle, sleeping heavily on Quentin’s other side, wouldn’t hear. 

Quentin rubbed his back, and said, “You won’t.” It didn’t matter that he’d said this before. He would say it again, as many times as Eliot needed it. “You’ll be such a great dad,” he murmured, tucking his head beneath Eliot’s chin.

Eliot kissed the top of his head reflexively, and seemed comforted for the moment.

Once Rupert was born, though, it was like all those doubts melted away. Eliot was in love, they both were, with this tiny, perfect human. Instantly indulgent, Eliot was wrapped around Rupert’s tiny, tiny fingers. 

He and Arielle had never grown all that close, but now even she saw what Quentin had always seen – how much love Eliot had in him.

With the three of them working almost as one, Rupert was never hungry, or afraid, or alone. Eliot conjured soft toys, delighted in any bit of play, never seemed to resent the loss of sleep. For a while, everything seemed perfect. Quentin was happy.

It was Arielle who noticed Quentin’s flagging spirits first. Rupert was beginning to sleep through the night, and Quentin was starting to realize how badly he could screw this up.

He’d spent so many months holding it together for El, and as a consequence he’d never really dealt with his own fears. His own father, while loving, had never understood him, had spent his whole life trying to fix him. As Rupert got a little older, and started to manifest small behaviors that Quentin recognized in himself, his doubts started to rise up. Maybe his own father had been right, Quentin started to think; maybe he did need fixing,. Maybe he’d passed his broken brain down to his son, and damned Rupert to a lifetime of depression and anxiety.

He started to withdraw from Rupert. Just a bit, just a touch of reluctance when Arielle passed the infant over for changing before being overwhelmed with need and pressing Rupert desperately to his chest. The alternate cringing and clinging caught Arielle’s attention, and she tried to ask him about it.

But he’d never really been vulnerable in front of her. Even when she’d been with another man, he’d been concerned with impressing her, seeming smarter, funnier, braver than he really was. And he’d kept up this charade successfully through the birth of their child. So when she asked if anything was wrong, he lied.

“Everything is perfect,” he said, swooping Rupert around the cottage, Rupert’s current favorite thing. The baby was laughing, and Quentin’s smile was pretty convincing these days, so Arielle believed him, and laid back for a much needed nap.

Quentin carried the baby outside, trying to keep up the front of happiness and feeling like his insides were crumpling, squeezing into a tight ball of stress and regret. In spite of his act, Rupert seemed to sense the truth and started to fuss.

The sight of Rupert’s sad little face tore at him. He was hurting his own son with his bullshit, he chastised himself. He retreated to a little bench behind the cottage, and bounced Rupert on his knee, trying to calm them both down.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” he said, holding Rupert close. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He sniffed, and Rupert made a distressed sound. “God, I’m useless. Hey, hey, it’s alright, everything’s fine, shhh.”

Eliot wandered around the corner of the cottage and saw them, Rupert’s minor signs of distress and Quentin’s reddened eyes, and sat beside them on the small bench. “Want me to take him for awhile?”

“You probably should,” Quentin said darkly, “before I make it even worse.”

“Hey,” Eliot said, touching Quentin’s shoulder before gathering a fussy Rupert into his arms. “What’s going on?”

Quentin started at him mutely for a moment before tucking himself against Eliot’s side. “I, uh. I’ve been having thoughts. Again.”

Eliot got an arm around him, the other securing Rupert quite easily, holding both his boys to him. “Bad?” he asked, knowing immediately what Quentin was talking about.

Quentin nodded, which had the effect of rubbing his face against Eliot’s soft work jacket.

“Okay,” Eliot said, calmly accepting as Quentin had feared he wouldn’t be this time (it wasn’t a rational fear, just as many of his depressive thoughts weren’t rational). “Can I help?”

Quentin nodded again. “I shouldn’t be around Rupert,” he whispered.

“Hey,” Eliot said, softly chiding. “Why not?”

“I’m just upsetting him,” Quentin said.

And Rupert was mewling a bit, but also snuggling fairly contently against Eliot, who looked down at father and son with raised brows. “Rupert’s fine, Q.” He shook his head. “What’s this really about? What are you thinking?”

Quentin was trembling where they were pressed together, and he didn’t answer. Eliot rubbed his arm rhythmically, and said, “Okay, Q. I can take point for a while. Just rest.”

Quentin leaned against him, and didn't answer, but let Eliot continue rubbing his arm.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short glimpse at their lives, and I might make it a series later (five times Quentin's depression gets the better of him, or something like that), but for now this stands alone.


End file.
